


Ned Chicane in "Astral Rejection" - A Dramedy

by LunarRavenWitch



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: And that's fine and cool, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Comedy, Gen, Mention of firearm usage, Spoilers for episode 28 of Amnesty, You could definitely interpret some Moschicane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarRavenWitch/pseuds/LunarRavenWitch
Summary: (Spoilers for Episode 28 of TAZ: Amnesty)The stars looked different from the Astral Plane.“... Well, shit,” said the spirit of Ned Chicane.A thief tries to cope with his own demise.





	Ned Chicane in "Astral Rejection" - A Dramedy

Nothing

No. Nothing on the Lake of Souls but prismatic waters and a slight mist. The land— er, water— of the dead had weather too, you know.

But nothing. Nothing on the Astral Plane.

... Until a penscratch of silver-blue broke free from the surface, forming itself into— a hand. And the hand gripped the nothing-surface of the water, dragged more silver-blue up, up and out. A head formed, and it gasped for breath that wasn’t there, and it dripped until its drippings formed a bushy beard, and it dragged itself up until it was whole— as whole as it could be— a verbose body now face-up, floating on the surface of the Lake of Souls, looking up into space in the same pose he lied in less than an hour ago. It was scratchy, like whatever celestial pen was writing it into existence was filling in his outline by means of random scribbles.

The stars were different in the Astral Plane.

“... Well, shit,” said the spirit of Ned Chicane.

Ned sat up, eyes wide. He— Right, he. Not “it.” He looked around, discerning his surroundings, and looked out at the miles and miles of—

Nothing. Nothing on the Astral Plane.

He grunted as he rolled onto his knees— dying, it seemed, had done very little to alleviate the pain in his back and joints, ironically enough. As he lifted himself up to his feet, he felt a dull throb from his chest, and he put his hand there.

… His finger fell into something hollow. It didn’t stop at his chest as he expected.

He looked down— saw his own spectral form, which was a solid, clothed, detailed silhouette of blue now, and saw the perfectly round hole, about the width of a rifle barrel, in the middle of his chest which his finger was stuck in.

“... Oh,” he said, “ _Shit!_ ”

He looked around once more. Panic rose up from his throat, but it was subdued by a solid coating of uncertainty and denial— and then he saw it. He turned slowly, wide-eyed, towards the near distance where a great, gothic fortress of steel and stone stood, the only sign of life— or death— for miles around.

Ned closed his eyes, shook his head, took a deep breath of nothingness— and then he looked towards the Eternal Stockade, brow furrowed.

“Better than nothing,” he muttered.

And he started to walk.

* * *

”You’re literally ruining the ice cream.”

”Ruining, Barold— or _innovating?_

”Definitely ruining, Lup. Listen, I’ve had my fair share of ice cream— if you recall, I had a good hundred years or so to, y’know, mix it up a bit, try out some different styles— and, without fail, addin’ the syrup to the cream just results in too goopy of an experience for it to be enjoyable.”

”Sounds like someone’s pretty limited on the flavor profile front. Sounds— Sounds like someone’s a little… _Vanilla._ ”

”The— first of all, you got me, and I have never been more offended. Second of all— the texture, Lup! You eat ice cream for the creaminess, not for the _slop!_ Plus, these two different brands of sweetness— th-they’re just _not_ supposed to meet, all right? We’re talking the difference between delicate, dare I say, _savory_ creamy sweetness and fuckin’ tooth-rot sugar-gunk! Those two don’t mix! They just don’t mix!”

”Look, both of you— Barry. You’re definitely being vanilla.”

”Oh, come on, Krav!”

”And, Lup, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not— you’re not an innovator for putting syrup on ice cream. I don’t know about _your_ homeworld, but on Toril, putting syrup on ice cream is basically a tradition. In the international ice cream, custard, and froyo festivals, there are some places that serve specialty delicacy styles of syrup-cream combinations, passed down through _countless_ generations of Cream Wizards. They call their special concoctions… Slippincrémes.”

”No they don’t. Fuck off, they do _not_ call them sippin— slippincrémes? Is that what you just said to me?”

”Oh, but they do, Barry. They do.”

”Hell yeah! This place fucking rules!”

”Yeah!” agreed Ned Fucking Chicane, “You know— I always found the chocolate syrup to be a bit too sweet for vanilla ice cream, but strawberry? Now, there’s a dessert you can really savor.”

The three reapers turned their heads. Ned, who was standing in the doorless doorway of the Reaper Hang-Out Space (Doors were, according to the Raven Queen, way too preppy for _her_ Eternal Stockade), had overheard their conversation echoing down the winding passageways of the prison and had followed the sound of ice cream-fueled argument all the way here.

”Oh, sorry,” he said, “Uh— knock knock knock.”

The reapers looked at one another, and then back at Ned. They were an odd bunch, by Ned’s reckoning— the man with dreadlocks and a fancy suit would’ve looked normal by himself, minus the big fuck-off scythe leaning against the back of his chair, but juxtaposed against the light-haired, fiery-eyed woman with the abnormally knife-like ears and— was that Tom Arnold?— the whole lot of them stood out as weirdos.

Not that Ned was one to judge anymore. After all, he was—

”Uuuuuh,” said the Tolkein-style Elf-like lady, “What’re you doin’ here?”

”I’d like to ask the same question! What _am_ I doing here? If I’m not mistaken, _you_ —” Ned pointed at the woman, “Were the one who swooped in while I was on the ground, did something funny with your scythe, and, presumably, brought me to this hole-in-the-wall!”

”You mean the Astral Plane?” said Maybe-Tom Arnold.

”If that’s what you call it, yes!”

”... Oh dear. Um— Sounds like you had a, uh, slightly messy removal process,” said the guy in the suit, shooting a glance at the Elven woman.

”Hey, there was a lot goin’ on! I had to get him out quickly! There were, like, all kinds of wack magical disturbances and junk.”

”That’s right— it’s a shitshow back in Kepler! So, if one of you would be so kind, I’d like to get _back_ there, please! I’m ready when you are— I’m travelling light!”

”Right, uh— I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” said suit guy.

”Ned Fucking Chicane, thank you very much!”

”Right. Ned, I’m Kravitz— this is Lup and Barry, and we… Are reapers. As in, you know— You ever heard of the Grim Reaper? It’s like that. And the reason why you’re here is because you’re… Dead, Ned. You’ve, uh, passed.”

Ned’s eye twitched. “... I’m afraid I, uh, must’ve heard you wrong there, Kravitz.”

”Ned, I—”

”Because, as I mentioned, there is a lot of _terrible shit_ going on back in Kepler, West Virginia right now. I don’t know where either of my friends are, my friend’s girlfriend almost got shot, a shapeshifter’s on the loose, and if I don’t get back down there, there might be an _interstellar fucking war._ So! I’m waiting on that lift back to Kepler, if you would please!”

The Elven woman— Lup— was passing a tiny will-o-the-wisp of reddish flame between her fingers, almost— nervously?

”... Listen, bud,” said Barry, a.k.a. Not-Tom Arnold (Supposedly), “That sounds, uh, rough, but we’ve got a strict Reapers code to uphold here at the Eternal Stockade. I mean, we— we _explicitly_ promised The Raven Queen, Goddess of Death, that we wouldn’t do any Necromancy on the job, and bringin’ you back to life would be, uuuh, a _big_ ol’ Necromantic to-do.”

”Fuck the rules!” shouted Ned Chicane, “This is _war_ we’re talking about! _Millions_ of lives are on the line, not just mine!”

Kravitz ran a hand over his face— he almost seemed to age in that moment, like this experience was bringing back something that had taken a toll on him. For a moment, Ned swore he saw his face turn skeletal. “Ned, how did you find your way in here, anyway?”

”Well, Krav— I’m a thief! Sneaking my way into places is the only thing I’ve _ever_ been good at— until now, I guess. _Now_ I can add ‘dying’ to that list of skills! Ha-ha!”

He didn’t sound like he thought it was very funny.

”B-besides, Ned,” said Barry— poor bastard was sweating— “Even with The Raven Queen’s blessing, it’d be better if we had a Cleric here to help you out.”

”Well, do you know any Clerics?” asked Ned, “Get me a landline and I’ll call up the God damn Pope!”

”... Well,” said Lup, “We know _one._ Dwarven guy with an eyepatch an a wooden arm named Merle Highchurch. Sort of a big name nowadays, I guess. But that’s— that’s beside the point, Ned. The point is, you’re—”

”Hey, guys!” came a somewhat raspy voice from the doorway. There stood a small, aging Dwarven man with one wooden arm carrying a big, layered green cake in front of him. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta get this to the kitchen before it slips—”

”Istus,” said Barry, “We’ve _got_ to get a fucking door.”

”Good to see ya, though!” said Merle as he passed through a similarly empty doorway to the left that presumably led to the Reapers’ kitchen. “Be with ya in a minute!”

Ned turned back to the Reapers after watching Merle walk on through, smirking. ”Well,” said Ned Chicane, all self-satisfied, “Will you look at that? Just my luck. Be right back, boys and girls— I have a meeting with a priest.”

And before anyone could protest, Ned walked on through the kitchen door(frame).

The reapers turned back towards the table’s center, none of them quite looking at each other.

”... All that said,” said Barry, “I can definitely fuck with caramel.”

Kravitz nodded. “For sure,” muttered Lup as she gently crushed her tiny flame into her palm, extinguishing it with a _hisssss_ and ash that stained the table.

* * *

"Ah, pre _cise_ ly the kind of man I've wanted to see all day! Mister Highchurch, I presume."

Ned came barreling in through the kitchen door, with all the cadence and stature of a long-lost friend coming in for a few drinks. The Eternal Stockitchen was modest— _was_ , until a certain culinarily-skilled Elf came in on a visit to his sister on the job and, uh, “gucci’d” up the place a bit with (intentionally) gaudy cooking equipment and decorations that stuck out like a living soul amongst the otherwise gothic aesthetics— and Ned didn’t pay the room much mind.

Merle Highchurch, on the other side of the room, who just came to the stockade to hang out with/antagonize the Reaper Gang, deliver a cake that he baked (Recipe Taako-Approved, but only jokingly), and flirt with the deadly flowers in Kravitz' garden, turned with a raised eyebrow, and then a curious smile, and said, "All right, you have my attention— yes, yes, it's me, _the_ Merle Highchurch— save your applause, save your applause. And who might you be, kiddo?"

"Kiddo?” Ned mumbled, “Oh, right— Dwarves— Well, my good sir, they call me Edmund 'Fanboy' Chicane, Sir Highchurch— or, they _would_ , if I was somebody, instead of a nobody with, well, no body!” He laughs, big, whole-hearted, and fake, with a tinge of something, er, else underneath it— something melancholic. “A-and I’m especially nobody compared to you, my good man. Unless the _legends_ of your exploits fail me, _you_ are a fellow of certain, shall we say, _celestial_ talents?"

"It's true, it's true, what can I say?” Merle, with some effort, lifted the cake up to the kitchen counter, which was taller than he was, “But! I wouldn't call them talents, per se. See, some people are born talented— buncha lucky bastards, the lot of ‘em— but me? Well, I worked as a Panite, serving a goat-god for over four hundred years to reach my station today— and, wouldn’t you know it, I'm _finally_ getting the respect I deserve for it! Ain’t that somethin’?”

Ned stroked his beard. "Well, I'm impressed that a man as dedicated as _you_ could keep up with his grooming so well! I mean, if you don't mind my saying, you're quite a striking figure!”

“Oh, please— please!” He waved his hand faux-modestly.

“You know— and don't take this the wrong way, Mr. Highchurch— I've been told I look a lot like you, and, well, I'm damn proud of it!"

Merle looked Ned up and down. The hair, the beard— size aside, there were striking similarities.

"... Eh,” said Merle, “I don't see it."

Ned’s eyebrow twitched. "R-right, well—” he cleared his throat, "I was _wondering_ , Mr. Church— can I call you Merle? I'll let you call me Ned if I can call you Merle— er, Mr. Church on High, would your divine powers happen to include certain, say... _Restorative_ techniques?"

"O-of course!” said Merle, practically hopping off the ground from the recoil of the question, “I'm, uh, well known throughooout the reeealms for my... R-restorative... Techniques..." Merle cleared his throat, a wooden fist raised to his lips.

"Great!” said Ned, “Do you think you could offer us a demonstration? Should be peanuts for you, and I know a guy with a _great_ big hole in his chest who's just _dying_ for some restoration!"

A great, big, long pause. Merle gave Ned a quick one-eyed once-over. A bead of sweat dripped down into his beard.

Merle gulped.

“Uh— s-sorry,” said Merle, “Spell slots."

“... What?” Ned croaked.

“Well, would— would you look at the time? I’m late for, uh— evening mass!”

“Wait, h-hold on—” as Ned spoke, Merle dashed out of the room, though with his little legs and his arms held stiffly out to the side to appear less like he was running away, it was more of an awkward fast-walk— “What the Hell are spell slots!?”

Merle disappeared out the kitchen door.

”And I thought you said you were a Pan-ite!?” Ned called.

Merle stuck his head back in the doorframe. “It’s a pantheon, buckaroo— the rituals overlap!”

And then the man with the healing hands was gone.

And once again, Ned Chicane was alone.

He sighed, except he didn’t. Ghosts don’t breathe. He rubbed his forearm, looked around, saw the cake, stared, looked away.

And then he left.

* * *

The Astral Stockade was cold.

Actually— no, it wasn’t. That was the problem. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t dry, it wasn’t humid, it wasn’t— It wasn’t. And that chill, that bone-freezing— no, fuck— that ectoplasmic nothingness, that was colder than any night of Kepler Winter.

 _So this is how you punish a soul for a few eternities,_ Ned thought. _I wouldn’t last half an eon._

He stood in a hallway like any other in the Stockade. It could’ve been anywhere. Walk far enough forward, and you’d start passing by cells.

“Stupid afterlife… Stupid magic— Who needs ya? Ned Chicane never needed anyone, and he sure as _Hell_ doesn’t need anyone now!”

He stuck out his chest, confident.

A beat.

…

“Oh, Ned,” he ran a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping, “Who’re you kiddin’, bud? Who’re you tryin’ to convince? You’re talkin’ to yourself.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, let his arm fall.

”There’s no one to lie to anymore.”

His face fell.

Ned started walking. It was the only thing to do, really, to escape the labyrinthian passageways of an Eternal Stockade. His legs felt like vapor, partially because they arguably were. He tried not to think too much or too hard, even though that was all there was to do, really, was think— and walk.

_You’re dead, Ned Chicane._

_Dead. Gonezo. Goner. Bit it. Threw the towel and kicked the bucket._

_Was only a matter of time, really. What are you, Ned? Sorry— what_ were _you— Ned? Just a dude who used to have a cool car where he used to keep some of his fake IDs that he needed to escape his countless misdemeanors. Just a dude. Duck, he was at least a Chosen Demigod Hero Guy half the time or more. At least he had a cool sword and a skateboard. You, Ned? You’ve got— had— a criminal record and a store full of shit. At least Aubrey—_

Oh, God. Aubrey.

Ned had to stop, had to focus, close his eyes, and think about not thinking, even though he was basically nothing _but_ thoughts by then, silvery-blue thoughts swirling around the inside of a bearded nobody that was presently tensed up and shaking with the effort of not, not, not thinking about the woman in the reaper’s hood with fire dancing between her fingers or how he saw Her in the orange glow there, the girl who hated him, the girl whose mother, _his_ fault, don’t, stop, just don’t, _his_ fault, and not just his fault but—

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ned Chicane.” 

Ned sighed. He’d know that cocky cockney anywhere. The air smelled like greased up hair and hands wherever he heard it.

“Boyd,” Ned snarled, letting the word roll past his lips, half-hoping the venom in his voice would kill Mosche a second time.

Inside the cell to Ned’s left shoulder, leaned up against the wall, sat the spirit of Ned’s recently-murdered partner in crime. His spirit was grey, covered in the tattoos he had in life, turned icy-blue and waving around on his not-body like snakes. His Orlando Bloom haircut was only somewhat disheveled, and he still had that God-damn smile.

“Guess it’s only fittin’ that we’d finally end up in the slammer together, eh, Ned?”

“Save it, Mosche. I’m leavin’.”

“So soon! And here I thought you’d want to visit your old pal.”

“Yeah, you and me both, Boyd.”

Ned took a step forward—

“Ned.”

He stopped.

“You’ll never make it out. Those guards’re, well— I was going to say sharp as nails, but scythes seem to be the, uh, more apt comparison here.”

“Mosche, I’m leaving because I’m a free man— spirit— ghost— whatever! Look, there are, apparently, no crimes on my conscious worth locking me away for. So I’m leaving.”

Silence. Ned refused to look into the cell. 

He told his feet to move, and they wouldn’t. _Still getting used to spirit nerve-impulses,_ he reasoned.

“And what’re you in here for, huh?” Ned muttered, “Tried to steal a raven? Maybe organize an illegal game of post-mortem Farobank?”

“... No, Ned,” said Boyd. It was the first time Ned had heard him sound genuinely sad in— well. Since before the accident.. “I tried to escape.”

Ned snorted. He turned towards the cell. “You? Tried to escape? Well, I guess nothing’s new under the fucking sun, huh?”

That’s when he saw his face— saw his eyes cast down to the floor, his lips stuck in a smile that was smaller than usual, hiding some sort of— shit, he didn’t know. Some kind of deep, terrible regret, y’know? The kind that gets into your skin and… Makes your heart all heavy and jittery? The kind that sits snug in the wrinkles of age? Something like that. It was hiding in the lines of his face before, but now— now Ned could see it.

Boyd didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking at the floor.

”Why…” Ned began, “Why would you try to escape, Boyd?”

”Same reason I escaped the _material_ prison, Ned,” Boyd said, “For one reason or another, I— I needed to see _you_.”

“Still trying to get back at me, huh?”

Boyd looked up. There was a twinkle in his eye, and Ned couldn’t tell if it was a shine of charisma or tears— no. Certainly the former. Ghosts don’t cry. “Maybe back in the Earth-slammer, that’s what I was thinking about, but— No, Ned. I—” he laughed a little, sadly, “When I was thrown in here, I— I can’t explain it, but _all_ I could think about was… Getting back to _you_.” He sniffed. “And maybe—”

”Don’t, Mosche.”

”Maybe, if I’d gotten out of this joint— I don’t know! Whatever the Hell happened to you wouldn’t have happened. Maybe we would be out there making good—”

”And since when have you ever cared about making _good_? Huh, Mosche?”

”I—” his voice began to raise, but then he stammered, and it fell— “I don’t know. I guess since I escaped out of prison just to end up getting my neck broken and my, uh, ghost tossed into a different prison.”

Ned was silent.

”Guess prison cells are just my destiny, eh, Ned?”

Ned sighed. “No— No, Mosche. It’s not. Look—”

And Mosche looked into Ned’s eyes.

”... Are we still partners?”

Boyd paused. “I don’t know.”

”Well— You may be a bastard, Mosche, but this place, y’know… Sucks, so. I dunno, maybe I’ll appeal to this… Magpie Matriarch or whomever and, uh, try to limit your sentence a little.”

Boyd smiled that fucking smile again. “Ned Chicane. Would you really?”

”All right, Mosche, don’t push your luck. I need to get going. I have some shit to think about— you know, like _death_ and shit.”

Ned started to walk away.

“... Ned.”

Ned grunted.

“When… When you said that there wasn’t anything worth locking you up for— Why did you sound so… Disappointed?”

Ned stood perfectly still. Inside, two truths waged a small war.

Stalemate.

Muffled footsteps of a dead man echoed down the hallway, away from the cell of Boyd Mosche.

“I’ll come visit you sometime soon… Partner.”

* * *

Ned sat several meters outside the Eternal Stockade, looking out over the Lake of Souls. His ass would’ve been wet if his anything could’ve been wet anymore.

”So, this is ‘Life after death,’ huh?” he asked no one, “I can see why _this_ religion never caught on. Not exactly glitz, glamour, and paradise.”

He huffed.

Behind him came the gentle sound of footsteps disrupting rainbow souls. Then, the footsteps stopped behind Ned Chicane.

“... Hey, uh— you seem like you have a lot on your mind there, friend,” came a gruff voice from behind him.

Ned scoffed. “Understatement of the year… Friend.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Ned barely moved. “You dead or just here to chase me off the property?”

“Oh, very dead— and I’m not a narc.”

“... Then I don’t see the harm in it.”

“Great!”

The figure that plopped down jovially next to Ned with a soft phumph of Astral Fog was wide as a bear, tall as a tree, and strong as something in-between a bear and a tree. Thick, reddish sideburns, a few days unkempt, framed his light brown face, which was beaming with simple, rustic satisfaction, like he had just sat down from a long day cutting wood— which, based on his threadbare tunic and ripped Spirit-Jeans, he may well have been doing exactly that.

The most striking thing about him was that, unlike all the spirits Ned had seen thus far, he wasn’t just one solid color. His face had shaded definitions and a rosy undertone. His jeans were denim-blue, and his shirt was russet. He wore a pair of well-worn leather boots. Ned could see a few streaks of gray around his ears, and his eyes— ironically, they were full of life.

He wasn’t even fully transparent! Just, y’know, a little on the translucent side form the right angle.

”Magnus Burnsides!” said, well, Magnus Burnsides, “Hail and well met!”

Ned snorted. “Magnus _Burn_ sides?” he said, “What are you, some kind of mythical _fantasy_ hero?”

”Actually, yes!”

”Well, isn’t that great?” Ned muttered.

”You got a name, friend?”

Ned swiveled towards him with a fake smile. “Ned ‘Doornail’ Chicane.”

”Nice to meetcha, Doornail! I’m The Hammer!”

”Oh, real funny.”

”No joke! Hey—” he put his hand over his non-existent heart, “Rogue’s honor!”

”That’s a damn oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.”

”You think so?” Magnus said, as if he wasn’t sure, but he wanted Ned’s opinion on it, genuinely.

Ned didn’t reply immediately. He sighed. “Look— why are you talkin’ to me, man? I’m just another soul.

”Well,” Magnus said, “I, uh— I spend a lot of time up here. Sometimes, I see a struck soul like you.”

”Stuck?” Ned said, as if it was an insult.

”Well, maybe stuck isn’t the right word. I— Listen, Ned. Some people come here, and they— they have some trouble adapting to the afterlife. And, hey— there’s no shame in that! When a soul gets stuck, it’s usually for a good reason.

”What makes you say I’m ‘stuck,’ whatever that means?”

”Well, first of all, you’re up here instead of under there—” Magnus tapped the lake’s surface with the end of his axe, “Where it’s, like, way nicer.”

Ned scoffed. “I could go down there whenever I damn well pleased!”

”Sure, sure— you sound like a friend of mine.”

” _You’re_ still up here! Does that mean _you’re_ ‘stuck?’”

”Eh— not really. Technically, I guess, but— it’s complicated. Stuck souls stick around because they’re holdin’ on to something. Me, I guess I’m the same, but— what I’m holding on to is, well, wanting to help other souls, so they keep me around. My wife and I were only supposed to stay up here for a little while, but then one thing lead to another, more stuck souls came, they needed a place to figure things out before makin’ the plunge, and— well, we’re still here! Us, the dogs. It’ll be nice, I think, when we join the rest of them, but if I wasn’t here, you’d still just be here talking to yourself.”

”Thanks for reminding me.”

”You’re welcome. And, besides— someone’s gotta feed the dogs, right? Anyway, on the subject of reasons I think you’re stuck: you’ve still got that big hole in your chest, and that _definitely_ would’ve healed over by now if you were unstuck, and— Ned, I’d be willing to bet you haven’t felt anything since you got here, have you?”

Ned looked away, embarrassed.

”... You’re more observant than you look, big guy,” he said.

”I get that a lot!” Magnus kept on smiling. “So! You wanna tell me how you got that big hole in your chest?”

”Isn’t it rude to ask your elders where their unexplainable holes came from?”

”Hm—” Magnus scratched at the stray hairs on his chin, “You’re a human, right?”

"Uh— yeah?”

”Then I’m your elder. Trust me— I lived longer than you did.”

”Bullshit! You’re human too!”

”Yep! But there was, you know, that whole thing where I got stuck in a universe-loop for a hundred years— you know! Didn’t you hear the song from the jellyfish?”

Ned stared. “Magnus,” he said, “That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say— and I spent the last year of my life living around _Mothman_ and company.”

”Oh, if you think that sounded weird, I have some _stories_ to tell you! But, first— tell me ‘bout ya hole, old man!”

”I mean…”

”Come on!” goaded Magnus excitedly, “C’mooooon, tell me about your cool hole!”

”All right, all right, fine! I—” Ned sighed, shifted in place, looked away. Magnus’ face fell, out of Ned’s vision now. He got the impression that maybe this was more serious than he expected.

”... I got shot, all right?” said Ned, “Right through the chest. And I’m not— I dunno, a holy cleric, or a chosen-person, or a magic-fucking-skeleton in a robe or whatever, so— when someone like _me_ gets shot, we have a tendency to die. So it goes!” Sarcasm stained the lake surface.

The Astral Plane was silent for a bit.

”... Is there more to the story?” Magnus asked.

”I got shot, Magnus. What more do you want?”

Magnus sighed. His bushy eyebrows turned with worry. “C’mon, Ned.”

_C’mon, Ned._

”... Look,” said Ned, “It was— a moment of passion. Someone raised a rifle, and this girl— my friend’s probably-girlfriend. Well, she was my friend too, but I don’t know— if that stands anymore. She was… She wasn’t in a good place. She wasn’t herself, y’know? And so this shot rings out, and I…”

Ned looked across the Lake of Souls with the sharp pain in his eyes of having thought about his death for the first time in hours.

”And I jumped, Magnus. I jumped right into the Raven’s beak.”

Ned coughed. “So to speak.”

Silence, again. Silence on the Astral Plane. Two souls look out across a rainbow waterscape.

”... Can I tell ya somethin’, Ned?”

”Shoot.”

”I would’ve done the same damn thing.”

… For some reason, that didn’t sit right with Ned.

“Listen, Maggie: I’m no hero. I’m a thief, for God’s sake. I— I wouldn’t know honor if it hit me upside the head. Virtue is something I name a crowbar ironically. And bravery?” Ned scoffed— “Ha! Forget about it.”

Magnus paused. “My best friend is a thief. And, well… _she’s_ one of the bravest people I know. Sounds like you’re pretty brave too.”

Ned didn’t respond. How could he?

But he felt something. For once, he felt _something_. Whatever it was, it was in his chest, somewhere near the new hole.

“... Would it kill you to know that I’m a thief too?”

“You’re shitting me. Is that what you meant with that whole ‘Rogue’s honor’ business?”

“Yep! I was never that good at it, though, so— I was sort of a shitty thief.”

“Jesus— Were all your friends thieves?”

“Hmmm,” hummed Magnus, “... Yeah, pretty much! I mean, in one form or another. And, y’know what? They still mean the world to me.”

“Well, I guess it takes a thief to see the good in a thief.”

“No, Ned. It just takes a little bit of understanding and a good heart.”

Ned rolled his eyes with a groan. God, why did he have to be so damn genuine? “Please, spare me the poetry.”

Magnus threw his hands in the air, smiling. “All right! Suit yourself!”

A beat.

“... I’m just saying,” said Burnsides, “I bet your friends will see the good in you.”

“Yeah,” said Ned, “They will, now that I’m…”

Gone.

It was at this point that Ned learned a very important lesson about living in the Astral Plane— and, like most lessons, he learned it through embarrassing personal experience. The lesson was this: Spirits still cry.

“... Ned?”

Ned sniffed. “I’m gonna miss those fucking kids, man. Duck and Dani and— the one with the snowboard, and that rambunctious honeybee kid with the bat, and Aubrey.” His voice broke. He didn’t realize it, but he started to collapse in on himself. “I’m gonna miss Barclay and his stupid warm, homemade dinners, and Kirby and his stupid shop-saving ideas and stupid positive attitude, and Mama and her stupid leadership— Hell, I’m even going to miss Stern, that rat bastard.” He laughed a little, though his cheeks stung with tear-trails, and he was happy for the stinging. It was better than the numb.

He didn’t retaliate against the log of an arm around his shoulders. His spirit simply shook. A drip of something bluish-white dripped from his cheek and added a sad but vital brushstroke to the canvas of souls.

It was beautiful, now that Ned was really looking at it— the Lake of Souls. All those different colors, rippling, waving, skirting around each other, mixing and meeting and splitting away. He was half-sure that there were some colors in there that he’d never seen before, or that he’d seen once and forgotten about completely.

_I really kicked the bucket, eh?_

”... Hey, uh,” Magnus said, “Have you been to the other side of the stockade yet?”

Ned sniffed. “Nope,” he said. “Why?”

”I have a place over there— a little cabin. It’s humble, but— I think you’d like it. We’ve got food, drink, beds, a warm fire, company… It’s a good life. Er— death. Sorry! Still makin’ that mistake.”

”... Huh. Y’know— it’s… It’s funny. If you didn’t come and sit down here with me, I might never have walked to the other side of this damn cinder block and seen your damn house!” Ned almost laughed— almost.

Magnus smiled, shook his head— hugged Ned a little tighter. “You would’ve found us soon enough. They always do.”

Ned nodded. It was all there was to do, really, when a spirit invites you over to their home.

”I, uh— I think I need a minute— y’know, to be by myself for a second.”

”Of course!” Magnus gave Ned one last squeeze before standing up with a satisfied grunt, holstering his axe back onto his back. “But you _will_ come over, won’t you?”

”Maybe,” said Ned, “I’ll get back to you on that.”

”All right, well— Come over soon! We’ll set the table for ya! Love the beard, by the way.”

And with that, Magnus happily galumphed towards home, towards the other side of the stockcade.

“... Magnus?” said Ned.

Magnus turned his head back with a wide-eyed smile, his lips quivering, his whole face twinkling, like he was a joy-balloon about to burst— like he just knew that Ned would say something he wanted to hear.

Ned looked away, groaned, rolled his eyes. Jesus, if Magnus was like this all the time, he might just die a second time from positivity exposure.

“I’ve, uh, memorized a pretty decent recipe for french onion soup,” Ned said, “I don’t know how well it’ll work in the spirit world, but— it’s worth a shot. I’ll give it to you the— the next time I come ove—”

“ _Great!_ ” Magnus rose his fists in excitement. “You’re going to love the cabin— I can’t wait for you to meet my dogs! There’s Buttercup, Rusty, Rover, Johann, Bec, Stephen the Third, Lily— C’mon, why don’t you come over now?”

And Ned Kelly Chicane smiled. His blue-silver cheeks turned a single shade redder.

Seemed he had some time on his hands.

And that— that was something.

**Author's Note:**

> Rest in peace, Edmund "Ned" Kelly Chicane, Brave.
> 
> (If you want, you can find me at my tumblr, [@theravenwitchy](https://theravenwitchy.tumblr.com). No pressure.)  
> (And please: have a good day, a pleasant evening, and a nice night.)


End file.
